The Great Fire (37 page)

'This achieved, Gerald disappeared for a time, having gone to live with an unscrupulous woman, the first woman in his life, with whom he fathered a child that did not live. He then attempted suicide, and has since been in a series of treatments, the latest of which intermittently continues here. All is precarious. My mother, who will come out, now, for my father's return, has been magnificent throughout and is now exhausted. It was felt that each should have a respite from the other. A curious outcome of all this is that my mother has taken up the study of law. I had not realised that there are women lawyers — who are, as yet, few.

'My father, meanwhile, departed for his white entombment. It must be said that he could hardly do otherwise. Plans for such a gruelling expedition are begun far in advance — in this case, before the war was over. My father's withdrawal would have dismantled all. He suffered over this. He is kind, and was tender to Gerald in his trouble. However, in best and worst senses, it was in his character to go into hibernation at such a time. All one can begrudge him, perhaps, is the huge relief with which he must have greeted the first ice floes as he steamed south from Lyttelton.

'For my brother and me, Wellington has been our ice floe. I had my own reason to come away. When a life goes off the rails, the casualties are many. One grows by turns patient, even saintly, and furiously resentful. These fluctuations occur in rapid succession or simultaneously, and the habit of abnegation loses its interest. Like others, I turn to my work, which occasionally palls. I resent my broken engagement — with life, as well as to a girl. But this limbo is now best for us both, making no demands. It's right for my brother to go about a bit, to rehearse being normal. I have friends at the University, nothing exciting. We're giving up the house at the bay. Even in fine weather, it was melancholy.'

'I remember.' The sad, splintered place, the place of exile. She says, 'What a cruel story. Does everyone have a cruel story?'

'I begin to think so. If one's lucky, the cruel part occurs within a better context.'

'Do people call on you, at home?'

'Yes. Would you come, Helen?'

'Certainly.'

'He needs company that isn't knowing or solicitous. Someone a bit odd is good, provided they're sane.'

'I hope to qualify.' Miss Fry would be just the thing. Helen says, 'My own brother, who is ill, has been a strength to me.'

'Next time, you'll tell me.'

They go out through the lobby, Helen nodding, queenly, to the desk.

Sidney Fairfax strolls with her to the tram, puts her on board. Walking home uphill, he feels with certainty that it will not happen: the far man will not come for her: too long, too distant, too much discouraged. Those two, having had their dream, will never meet again. It is in her face, her fate. Everyone has a cruel story.

At home, Gerald has left the porch light on for him, and lit the fire. Such offerings can be deceptive, but are welcome. Gerald is reading
The Dominion
, but puts the newspaper down as Sidney comes in, and says, 'For the first time, this evening, I miss my home. Is that insane?'

22

'Aurora, let me get you another one of those.'

'No, truly. I just want to sit and look.'

'That's what we do best here, spend time looking.'

'It gives a different sense of the globe.' She said, 'I'm loving idleness. Sitting in the sun, which hasn't yet reached the marrow of my bones.'

'I was the same when I first came out. Haven't thawed even yet, and it's been two years. Enjoy yourself.'

She was enjoying it, the heat, hills, and colours; the flowered terrace, and the party. 'Everyone's so kind to me.'

'That's because you're a poppet, Aurora. Isn't Aurora a poppet?'

'Stay on. Stay forever.'

'I'll think about it.' Laughed. Thought, No.

'What was it, Pimms? I'm going to get you another.'

'Aurora, there's someone who wants to meet you. Ray Harkness.'

'I don't think I know him.'

'It's not him, it's her. Mrs Harkness. Another poppet. She lives near here, fine property, husband, two kids. She asked to meet you, she's here indoors. There's some connection.'

Aurora got up. 'I can go and find her.'

'I'll take you, she's in the far room. Young and beautiful, like you.'

In the far room, Mrs Harkness turned her head. She was thirty, perhaps; and beautiful, certainly. Someone said, 'Husband's a cad. She bears up bravely.'

'Ray, this is Aurora Searle, who's dying to meet you.'

Peach-pale face, huge dark eyes.

'I am so glad.' Slight accent. Some shyness. She did not so much shake as briefly hold Aurora's hand. 'If we could have a moment together.'

Someone said, 'Secrets. There's a cosy corner in there, past the curtains. Look, I'll show you. Nobody'll bother you.'

They sat on a sofa. Mrs Harkness was simply dressed, in a pale perfect creation. She said, 'I think that you knew the writer Oliver Leith.'

'We were very close.' Oh, Oliver, what scrape did you get into with this beauty?

'I saw that he died.'

'It's the reason I'm out here. Trying to get used to that.'

'I'm very sorry. These are the great sorrows:
i grossi dispiaceri!
Voice soft and truthful. 'I knew his son, before the war.'

So that's it. 'Aldred.'

'We called him Dino — first, Aldredino, then Dredino, then Dino.' Smiled. 'He used to come to my family's house at Florence. He knew me as Raimonda Mancini.'

'I do remember. I knew him during that time. He'd gone to school with my son.'

'Is your son here?'

'My son died.'

'Was it the war?'

'Yes.' And what if I were to cry now, what if we both cried? Why not? She too, I've forgotten it, went through some ultimate experience of war. 'You'd like news, then, of Aldred? — and I can give you good news of him.'

'I saw in the paper that he survived the war, and was brave.'

'Braver than anyone.'

'He was good to us in our first trouble, more than good, an angel. His father also, who sent us money when we needed it, although he never knew us. Does Aldred live in England?'

'I saw him in London a month ago. He went to China after the war, to write a book, and came back. Was wounded in the war, but is over it now, and things go well for him. He remains what he was, admired and loved.'

'Did he ever marry?'

'He was married during the war, but they were parted and agreed to divorce. Nothing very unhappy, I think. He means to remarry. There's a young girl he met in the East, a romance. He was always a Romantic.' You'll remember, as I do.

Raimonda said, 'We used to tease him when he was stern. When he would conceal his kind heart. My family, we all admired him, he wasn't much more then than a boy, but already a man, the very best man.' She said, 'He was a bit in love, at that time, with my sister.'

And what about you, Raimonda? — who ask about him with tears.

'And what about you, Raimonda, how did you weather the war?'

'I have two brothers living, otherwise all are dead. Gigliola, died in the war, my father before it, and my mother just afterwards. We mustn't make each other sad. One of my brothers lives in the house at Florence with his wife and children, and is repairing it. The other is in New York, but will soon come and see me here. I have two little boys, and hope to show them Italy one day.'

'I'll write Aldred's address for you.' They scrounged around for pen and paper. 'He's in Germany just now, but soon goes home.'

'Will you see him?'

'Of course.'

'Ask him if he remembers Raimonda Mancini.'

My dearest,

I am in a small town in Germany. The town is the seat of the British Command and entourage. It is ringed by a barbed-wire fence, nine-tenths of the houses are occupied by our army, and the only Germans to be seen in the town are those employed by us. The surrounding countryside is pleasant and unharmed, but not exciting. What matters is the extreme futility of our existence. The only solid thing, which is the Soviet menace, makes us afraid and impotent. We talk of a western union, to give ourselves hope. Much else could be done, but will not happen. Possibly some crisis will occur, short of war, to galvanise the West. I wish I could think so.

I find myself again in an army of Occupation, and with less appetite than ever for the role of victor. Out of regard for your tender years, I shan't describe the forms taken by victory in the ruined cities I've so far seen. How, with the evidence before them, men can contemplate more war is incomprehensible and terrifying. It is also completely beyond the ability of people like ourselves to influence. I at last come to believe that, in man, the primitive prevails. My consuming anxiety is that war will seal you up in New Zealand. If war should come before I can reach you, I beg you to do all you can to get over here, where in spite of added dangers we will be together. My attitude to the war is puzzling even to myself: I believe I have become a pacifist, without any doctrinaire approach. Having had one go at setting the world right, I decline a second opportunity.

Forgive me if I frighten you. The better aspect of this is that we must begin our adventure without delay. My set task here has been extended, but within the month I return to England, where I'll immediately put things in motion to leave the army conclusively. I must tell you that I spent a very good evening with Bertram — Bertie, as he invites me to call him — the chief joy of which was talking of you to someone who knows and loves you. We are both anxious for news of Benedict. If I don't hear from Tad on my return to England, I'll cable him. Meanwhile, Bertie has been helpful in other and critical ways.

Although I made careful arrangements to have correspondence forwarded, it has been misdirected from Norfolk to London. Thus I am eating bitterness waiting for your letter. Helen darling, how I want and need and love you at this moment. How happy if you were here, how happy we will be.

The news from Peter Exley isn't good. He sends short letters at long intervals, and my main news of him comes from Audrey Fellowes, who is still in Japan. This, too, I'll try to look into.

Infinite thanks for the photographs, which are so fine that I assume the hand of Miss Fry, who does everything well. As they are clearly taken with affection, I don't want to think that anyone else was involved.

Dear Aldred,

Helen tells me that this will reach you as you return to Britain from Germany. I was in Germany on my trip back to the States: a grim scene. Less of a clean sweep than Hiroshima. I always felt, at Hiroshima, that the crust of the earth had been lifted off only to reveal more man-made horrors beneath. Even in California, I still hear the slurping sound that is a world licking its wounds.

My studies force the pace here, which is good for me and enjoyable. I've made some friends. I survey the postwar USA and wonder if I need new eyeglasses. I peer, also, at Japan from this side of the Pacific, no longer Tad Pinkerton who set sail one year ago. New powers are seeking new worlds to clobber: I might just opt out of that.

You won't, I think, expect any great news about Ben. I soft-pedal a bit to Helen, but to you I can say that the end may come at any moment. Everything is giving in, respiration included. His heart is laboring. He knows me when he is awake. Between weakness and sedation, that is not much of the time. Thorwaldsen does pay attention, but is full of jargon and furthermore lacking in some critical element of self-doubt. Or maybe all that's needed is a course in basic English. I'll cable you if there is drastic change, Helen also. The Parents will hear from Thorwaldsen, in such case. The time for reserving a phone call to New Zealand is, as you no doubt know, twenty hours in advance, with some abbreviation for emergencies. Long distance indeed.

I read Helen's letters to Ben. Even when he can't take it in, he gets the message: I know that it's so. You'll understand me when I say that I enjoy my times with him. I've been glad to be on hand. I love the little guy, and won't forget him.

Same goes for Helen, and — again, you'll believe me — for yourself.

Dear Aldred,

As you see, I write this from Hong Kong, where I'm back at the Gloucester. My brother is with me and a great help, although he must return to Yokohama in a week or so. News is not good, but could — as you'll see be worse. Ten days ago, Peter tried to take his own life — a very ingenious attempt, involving pills, which was aborted by the Portuguese lady who visits him at Queen Mary Hospital and who alerted the staff in time. Morale not good, as one might imagine, and I thought it better to come here and lend a hand. Peter's parents have arrived from Sydney — perfectly nice people, who are naturally beside themselves and with whom my brother has been nothing less than angelic. The doctor, a trump, has also pitched in a bit with the parents, as have my cousins the Gladwyns — whom you may recall from that day when we all shared hard tack at the Governor's table.